


In Calamity One Awakens; in Tempest a Bond Forms

by BlushingRojas



Series: Empyrean Sky [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF! Peter Parker, Caring Uncle Ben and Aunt May, Guns, Hurt Aunt May, Hurt Peter Parker, Non-Consensual Touching, Peter fucks shit up, Peter has Dying Will Flames, Protective Peter Parker, Sky! Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingRojas/pseuds/BlushingRojas
Summary: — wherein death is not enough to part Peter Parker from his beloved family, and hesoars.Theme: Peter's FuryTheme: Fon's Tempest





	In Calamity One Awakens; in Tempest a Bond Forms

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of the story takes place on February 29th, 2012, Peter is 10.
> 
> Petey's birthday is August 10th, and he was born in 2001, so I'm basing this timeline off with this birthday in mind.

Peter remembers how his flames had awakened. He distinctly remembers the throb of adrenaline coursing through his veins, the rhythmic tattoo of his heart against his chest. It had all been pulsing and agitating and _freeing_ as if he had been weighed down all his life; a weight he’d never even noticed until it was suddenly off his shoulders. The flames that breathed life into him once more, that made his heart hum in content and soar, were a bright and vibrant, _undiluted_ , orange. They’d burned fiercely and erratically up his arms, around his torso and then they shot _outwards_ — towards those that had dared to raise a gun at him and his family.

Uncle Ben had been pinned against the coarse brick wall of the alleyway, a gun lodged firmly beneath his jaw as the assailant hissed words of contempt. His Aunt May — _his caretaker and beloved family, his second mother, his warmth and his_ **_home_ ** — was pressed into the cold hard ground with dirty and revolting hands wandering about, pressing and _invasive_ as she silently sobbed. Uncle Ben had struggled with tears streaming down his face as Aunt May was being groped, but then he stilled when another gun had made an appearance and its barrel pressed against a petrified Aunt May.

“ _No!_ ” Peter had shouted, struggling with fervor against his own captors who had their own wandering hands and sickening words. He kicked and he screamed with all the stubbornness of a ten-year-old until they pinned him down and shouted at him to stay still, to _just shut up_ . “No! Leave her _be_!” And then, Peter saw stars as the man holding him down slammed his head against the cold pavement. His vision darkened, warmth blossomed beneath his head and Peter gasped for air.

There was a whine, a petulant one, of, “Now just _look_ at what you have done. You broke him!”

There was a distressed call of his name from Aunt May and a strangled shout of desperation from his Uncle, and then the cold feeling of the barrel of a gun being pressed against his temple as the man straddling him and holding him down leaned in to whisper, “Dead or alive, your body is _mine_ ,” and then, Peter was dead.

Until he wasn’t.

Peter rose from the cool embrace of death in an inferno of orange flames. He snapped his eyes open and met the surprised — _the hungry, disgusting and then terror-stricken_ — eyes of his captor. Peter snarled something guttural from deep within his throat and pushed himself upwards, grabbing the hand that had been shoved into his pants and breaking it within his tiny grasp. His captor kneeled from the pain, and Peter took the opportunity to wrap his hands around the exposed throat, digging his thumbs into the man’s jugular notch. The fire, protective and enraged as Peter himself, surged forwards and encased the man into its fiery depths, cutting off the man’s gurgled pleas. All that remained, then, had been the stank of a burned corpse and ashes.

The fire continued its path of destruction and pushed the man off of May and pinned the man holding Uncle Ben at bay against the wall. The fire understood, then, that this was Peter’s vendetta, his reason to turn his back on death and say _‘shove it!’_ and his, overall, final say.

Faster than what a ten-year-old should be, with the strength of perhaps a body-builder, Peter rushed towards the closest man (the one who had unashamedly groped his _warmth_ and _home_ ) and kicked the man’s kneecap. The man doubled over and gurgled a scream as his leg was suddenly inverted. Peter then grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled down with all his strength. The man’s nose crunched against Peter’s knee, the tell-tale warmth of blood seeping through the preteen’s tattered jeans. The man then fell to the floor, his breathing erratic as Peter’s own had been when the other man had slammed Peter’s head against the pavement.

 _“Now just_ look _at what you have done. You broke him!”_ it was he, this man, who’d said such uncaring words, bereft of mercy for innocents.

Peter snarled once again, teeth showing, and then he stepped on the man’s neck, ready to have this man dead. His flames, devoted and strong (like Uncle Ben) and _warmth_ (just like Aunt May) had already take care of the other man, his charred corpse slumped against the wall. Peter’s wishes for him to burn had come to fruition.

“Now,” another voice interrupted, and Peter looked up to see a toddler, a _toddler_ of all things, facing him. His face is serene, calm despite the carnage before him, and the man beneath Peter’s foot croaked out a breathless _“help,_ ” before Peter pressed a bit more heavily against the neck. “Is this how you wish to handle things? To have your hands painted red in their blood forevermore?”

Peter thinks about it, about how his Aunt had been groped freely, without her consent, how this man’s hands had wandered into her pants and how his Aunt May had sobbed in shame, in anguish, and how his Uncle had been forced to watch the love of his life suffer while he was helpless to do anything. Peter thinks of the other man, with his own wandering hands and foul promises, with his hands down Peter’s pants and touching the _no-go_ place while Peter had been dead before he rose from death. He remembered the lurch in his stomach and the rolling waves of disgust before unadulterated hatred had consumed him.

 _So_ — “Yes,” answers Peter, as calm as the toddler, unmoving, uncaring of his harsh words. There was a sharp glint in the toddler’s almond eyes, and Peter kept going, “He touched my home, my warmth, and she’s in pain.” Peter pressed down some more, “his _friend_ made promises he shouldn’t have, touched where he shouldn't, and paid the price, why should this one not?” His flames surged, erratic, _free_ , and embraced Peter in support. The toddler nodded in agreement, his serene smile holding bloodlust with its confines.

“An eye for an eye —” and Peter put all his weight into it, crushing the man’s neck despite his struggles, “and a soul for a soul.”

“Strong words, strong actions, for one your age.”

Peter eyed the toddler, saw the confident stance of what should be a _man_ instead of this two-year-old in front of him, and his flames suddenly _ached_ in want, surging forwards before Peter sunk his will into his flames with determination to keep them at bay.

“You,” Peter started, unsure as to how to proceed, before stepping away from the corpse. He sent his want and need for it to be gone, to have him be nothing but a bad memory, and his flames complied to his wishes.

The toddler tilted his head, smiling serenely. “Me.”

Peter tilted his own head before he, himself, smiled. “You aren’t a toddler.”

He could faintly hear his Aunt May sobbing in relief —  or perhaps it’s aghast? — and his Uncle Ben softly calling out to Peter, but his flames were demanding and harder to keep in check, despite how tender they’d beforehand. They wound themselves around his torso, like a tempest of flames, and danced eagerly around Peter. He urged them to wrap around him in an effort to keep them at bay, but it’s lost in the childish glee emitting from his flames. If Peter was being fairly honest to himself, he wanted to let go, to be _free_ again, and say screw it to consequences.

There’s a slight widening of the eyes from the not-toddler before Peter’s grasp on his newfound flames slipped and they surge forwards, crooning in delight in and encasing the not-toddler. Peter tried to reel them in, desperate, but they wouldn’t listen. And then, the not-toddler’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he stepped back from the pretty orange flames that are Peter’s, and his own flames: red, hot and burning, _blistering_ and _destructive_ surged forwards, ready to fight Peter’s own. To destroy Peter’s pretty flames, but Peter won’t have that. He won’t have his flames, his protector, be destroyed or ripped away from him. So Peter fought back just a furiously, his orange flames twirling and whipping around the red destructive flame. Then, the not-toddler surges forward, jumping high and aiming a kick at Peter’s exposed, well, _everything_. Peter dropped the ground, heart beating erratically and then, he grinned. Peter brought up his leg up to kick the not-toddler as he soared above Peter, and the not-toddler expertly maneuvered his body to miss Peter’s kick, landing deftly on his feet a few feet from Peter.

Their flames are still doing their own dance, of surging forward and the other careening back, and it was like watching furious dragons trying to assert their dominance over the other.

Peter jumped back to his feet, pivoting on his heel to avoid the not-toddler’s powerful punch and Peter’s own arm raised to punch the not-toddler before something made him weak in the knees and he struggled to stay upright. Peter’s not the only one affected as the not-toddler stumbled on his landing. His flames purred in delight, and Peter looked up to see his orange flames slowly circling around the red flames of the not-toddler, and how the red flames seemed to be tentatively reaching out to the orange flames.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the not-toddler and then, without warning, the flames surge toward one another, embracing and tugging at the other, filling in the gap in Peter’s heart he did not even notice was there. They’re in tandem, in _harmony_ , and finally, Peter gave in and fell to his knees, too overwhelmed in the euphoric sensation coursing in his body to care that he was now pulled into his Aunt and Uncle’s strong embrace. The not-toddler is on his hands and knees, and he seemed to be as surprised and overcome as Peter himself.

Then, the ten-year-old pried himself from his family embrace, despite both their efforts to reel him back in, and approached the not-toddler.

“Peter Parker,” he stuck out his hand, waiting until the not-toddler regained his composure.

The not-toddler grasped his hand tightly, and Peter tightened his own grasp to match his… his _what?_ Peter wasn’t sure, but this not-toddler was his as much as Peter was the not-toddler’s.

“Fēng,” said the not-toddler, “but you may call me Fon.”

“You are mine,” Peter declared with finality, kneeling so he would be eye-to-eye with Fon. There’s a strangled gasp from his family, but he ignores them. He knows they’re fine, that there’s no danger, and he can feel his flames, delirious as they are, protecting him and his loved ones. “And I am yours.”

From there on out, Fon took care of the Parker family. From the decrepit alleyway, he managed to get flag them down a taxi and take them to the hospital while he took care of the rest, in other words, the legality (or lack) of it all. At first, Uncle Ben and Aunt May had been cautious of the Storm Arcobaleno, but Fon had been caring and blunt, laying out the bare basics of it all and explaining what he could. While Uncle Ben and Aunt May didn’t approve whole-heartedly of the Mafia side of it all, and Fon’s overall position in the Triads before he was cursed, they did approve of him teaching Peter (and sometimes them) self-defense.

“You’re far off,” says Fon, jumping atop of the fire-escape banister and breaking him from his reverie. Peter hums, not quite an agreement, and kicks his legs some, swaying them back and forth from his precarious sitting position on the metal railing. Fon looks at him patiently. “What’s on your mind?”

Peter hums again, stilling his legs, before answering. “You and me, I guess. How we met and how we harmonized and what had led to that beforehand.”

“Do you regret it?” asks Fon, as he always does when Peter dredges up the memory.

“No,” says Peter, because he isn’t, that is, regretful. Peter had gotten back up, risen from the dead, and protected his family. He’d harmonized and he didn’t regret it one lick.

This time, it’s Fon that hums his answer, and Peter can feel strings of their bond thrum in _content_ , but then it sours, even if Fon doesn’t show it.

Peter waits it out, knowing Fon will eventually tell him if need be, and if not, Peter has no qualms of allowing Fon to have his own privacy.

“Some Arcobaleno want to —” Fon turns his head away some, but Peter can still see the downturn of his lips, “meet you.”

Peter blinks and is surprised at his inability to feel surprised by the declaration. But, perhaps truly not, and then Peter says, “okay,” as if he’s agreeing to something trivial and not something _more_. “Just not here, at the apartment, I mean.”

Fon nods, and that’s that. Though, Peter wonders which Arcobaleno he’ll get meet next. But he’s in no hurry, because he has Fon and his Storm is all he needs for now, and he makes sure to send that down their bond to reassure his Storm.

From there they just talk, about how Peter is doing in his classes, and how his studies in Italian and Chinese Mandarin (both, of which, Fon strongly encouraged him to do) have progressed. Peter talks in low tones how his Aunt and Uncle are still adamant that he see a therapist, even after all these months. But, it’s not Peter who twitches at unannounced touches, nor Peter that smokes religiously to calm down. Actually, it’s Peter who has been nightmare-free in the household.

Peter doesn’t feel invincible, by any means, but he definitely knows he holds the mean to defend himself if need be. Peter doesn’t need to rely on his flames, lest Omerta is called against him for revealing the Mafia to the world at large, and can rely on his own because of his training with Fon. He now knows how to incapacitate or kill a person with several methods using everyday household items, or anything from his backpack should he be outside the house. He knows the pressure points of the body, where to press, and so on. Fon is an incredible teacher, diligent and patient.

The mornings are for katas, afternoons for training, and evenings are for schoolwork and languages.

On Fon’s calm insistence, Peter agrees to the therapy thing for just two sessions, just to prove to his family that he’s fine so surely they can rest assured. The therapist does tell his Uncle and Aunt that he is mentally sound after the second session and that they have nothing to fear. Fon just nods when Peter tells him this and keeps on instructing Peter through his Flame training.

Spring soon turns into summer, and then school is out. In the upcoming school year, Peter will move up to Middle School, and he dreads those three years until he can apply for Midtown Tech. Until then, Peter thinks with a grin, he’ll just have live up to Fon’s expectations to do better, _be_ better.

So, bring it _on_.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love for anyone to plop down a comment, it keeps me motivated, as much as I hate to admit it. Comments make my literal day, so don't be a stranger!


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